Testing the Waters
by Captain James
Summary: Snape decides to test seventh years, making them identify potions. Harry’s test, though, goes different from everyone else’s. (One-shot, slash)


**Title:** Testing the Waters

**Rating:** R

**Summary:** Snape decides to test seventh years, making them identify potions. Harry's test, though, goes different from everyone else's.

**Warnings:** Seventeen-year-old Harry in quasi-sexual situations with Snape.

**Pairing:** Snape/Harry

**Labels:** One-shot

**Beta-readers:** Bruno, who challenged me to rewrite entire paragraphs of this fic, most times by simply asking for a bit more, and who and pointed out my "-ly tendency"; Cordelia, who corrected my grammar and spelling and helped me see which things were confusing or unclear; and Octune, who corrected some mistakes as well. My endless gratitude to them all.

* * *

-

NEWT-level Potions class that day went by almost uneventful. Point deductions to Gryffindor were minimal, as were irritating comments from Snape and the Slytherins.

Almost.

While students were finishing cleaning up their cauldrons and worktables, Snape strode to the front of the classroom and faced the class with an indifferent look in his eyes. "As you are all aware, at the end of this year you will be taking your NEWT exams," he started, the fingers on his hands twitching a little. "Consequently, next term will be dedicated to the revision of everything that most of you have not learnt over the past six and a half years. I expect all of you to obtain high marks in your exams, but if you don't, I won't be the one to blame. I have taught you and trained you to the best of my abilities, and I simply refuse to take responsibility for your idiocy and idleness." His eyes surveyed the back of the classroom, where the Gryffindors were sitting.

Dean leaned closer to Harry and whispered, "_That's_ the best of his abilities?"

"That's five points from Gryffindor, Mr Thomas," Snape said with a small smirk, then continued to address the whole class. "In view of the fact that the end of this term is four days away, I have decided to test your skills regarding potion-making. On Friday."

A collective sigh filled the Potions dungeon, along with a few "Humph!" sounds.

"Do save all that whining for when this class is over. The test," Snape went on, "will consist of one task that should be simple enough for those of you who have any chance of passing your Potions NEWT. You will have to identify three potions, that is all. Class dismissed."

A dozen pairs of feet hurried to take their owners out of the cold dungeon and up the stairs to the main floor.

"But he's never tested us before!" Dean started to complain as soon as they were out of the professor's earshot. "Why, _why_ does he feel the need to make our lives miserable all the time? And just before Christmas break! He's got the holiday spirit of a Grinch."

"He can't let us know only four days in advance," Hermione chimed in, words dripping with indignation. "I've still got to finish two feet of my Transfiguration essay, and I haven't even started with all the Arithmancy diagrams I have to do. When am I going to study?"

"Why do you bother, Hermione?" Harry said, his voice low and resigned. "He's going to fail us anyway."

"So what?" Dean asked. "It's not like this test counts when we sit for our Potions NEWTS, is it?"

"You're right. Why is he testing us, anyway?"

"I told you, Harry, to make our lives miserable. It's his hobby."

-

Friday afternoon came, and Dean and Harry had not touched their Potions notes since Monday. It made Harry a little worried when he entered the Potions dungeon for his last class of the day.

Snape came in five minutes late, through the door to his office. "You will be writing an essay on the side effects of Baffling Potions today," he stated flatly, running his fingers along the edge of his desk in opposite directions. His gaze moved from student to student, nailing each of them in place. Harry wondered if he had forgotten about the test. "I will now explain to you the procedure for today's test." No, he hadn't forgotten. That would have been too much to hope for, anyway.

"It will be administered individually," Snape announced, his eyes flickering over to Harry for a second before continuing their journey around the classroom, "and will take place in my office. You will be called one by one, in the order you are sitting. Once I am finished testing you, you may leave the classroom and go to your respective common-rooms until dinner."

Harry tensed, noticing he was sitting at the back of the classroom, to the left. From which corner was Snape going to start calling students?

"Miss Parkinson, come with me." The dark-haired Slytherin stood up and followed Snape into his office.

He was starting from the right corner at the front, then. Harry let out the breath he had been holding, took out some parchment, ink and a quill from his bag, and proceeded to peer over Hermione's shoulder at her already-one-inch-long essay, hoping to find a prompt or two to spur his brain into action.

-

The class went by at a snail's pace, stretching like gluey bubblegum. Only Harry and Hermione remained in the dungeon by now, and neither of them dared speak in case Snape could hear them from the adjacent room. Not that Harry wanted to initiate conversation with Hermione right now; she was twitching restlessly in her seat and breathing rather shallowly, ready to snap at the slightest stimulus.

It was late into dinnertime when Dean came out of Snape's office, his face colourless. Harry looked at him with questioning eyes, but he shook his head and left the classroom without a word, like all the others before him had done. Sighing, Harry stuffed his quill, inkpot and unfinished essay into his bag before leaning forwards to rest his forehead on the worktable.

Hermione's almost tangible tenseness seemed to be about to reach breaking point when at last the door to Snape's office opened and the professor called in a fed-up voice, "Miss Granger."

Harry was alone in the classroom now. He thought about everyone else—well, except Hermione—having dinner up in the Great Hall, perhaps chicken with roasted potatoes... His stomach rumbled. He was hungry. And cold. But he'd rather be hungry and cold than taking the test with Snape in the man's office, that much was certain.

His eyes roamed along the walls, landing on a glass jar that was sitting on one of the shelves, containing something particularly disgusting; it looked like an eye of some sort, submerged in green stuff that did not look exactly liquid. He hoped that particular ingredient was not part of any potions he would have to identify that evening.

The door to Snape's office opened once again and a slightly shaky Hermione came out. She approached Harry's worktable more than was necessary on her way out the classroom, murmuring something and casting him a pointed look. Harry tried to read her lips. _Tuflating- no, Deflating Draught. Ehloo Ointment?_ Did that even exist? He must have misread her lips. _And...what was that?_ He didn't quite get the last one.

One out of three was probably not enough for him to pass the test.

Snape poked his head out of his office just before Hermione left the classroom. "Mr Potter." Then he disappeared back inside.

Harry's heart raced as he stood up and crossed the abysmal distance between his seat and the door – the longest ten feet he had walked in some time. He wondered if he should knock, but decided Snape was waiting for him anyway. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

The place didn't look like the last time he had been there. Most furniture was either gone or moved to the end of the room, against the wall. There was a slightly-high, rectangular table on the centre of the room, but no chairs.

Snape was working on something at the most shadowy end of the room, his back to Harry. "Manners, Potter. You didn't knock." But before Harry could form a reply, Snape ordered him to close the door.

Harry did as told, a sense of dread making his limbs go vaguely flaccid. He was alone with Snape now, and everyone else was upstairs, having dinner, not caring about what happened to him.

Snape whirled around, holding something in his hand. Harry's hand gripped the doorknob in an impulsive movement. "As I have told the whole class before, Mr Potter, the test consists of identifying three potions that I will conjure up shortly."

Snape paused, seemingly waiting, and Harry nodded to let him know he had understood.

"On the table," the man added.

Wha- oh, right, the potions were going to be on the table. Harry approached it, wondering when he had become so thick to believe Snape would make him lie on it.

A tiny smirk distorted the professor's mouth. "You will have to identify the potions by their smell." He held up his hand, showing Harry what he was holding: a dark piece of cloth that looked like a thin scarf.

Harry started, his breathing pace quickening. Snape was going to blindfold him? "Sir?"

The man rolled his eyes. "You will not be allowed to see the potions, Potter." He moved around Harry to stand beside him.

Harry felt a sudden urge to turn around, to keep Snape in sight. He remembered his Occlumency lessons, how he had been reluctant to close his eyes while alone with Snape. His hesitation back then seemed insignificant compared to the reluctance he was feeling at the moment, which—though he would never admit it to anyone—was bordering on cold panic. Damn the man for doing this; couldn't he just ask him to close his eyes?

His glasses were removed and Harry's world went blurry and greyish. The two torches on the walls were now big spots of light, but not bright enough. Something blocked Harry's vision and he closed his eyes before he felt the cloth against his eyelids. It was soft, but not slippery. He felt Snape tying it behind his head, pulling it a little too tight, though not enough to make his eyes hurt. The pressure around his head was oddly comfortable.

Harry almost gasped in surprise when a pair of hands descended onto his shoulders, barely touching him, and turned him to his left before pushing him a couple of steps forwards. Harry lifted his hand a few inches, an impulsive movement, and felt it collide with something hard – the table. His fingers slithered up the edge of the wood and hung there, suspending his hands that felt heavy and stupid hanging limply to his sides.

"Ready, Potter?" Snape breathed somewhere close to Harry's ear, sending a—hopefully—unnoticeable little shiver down his spine. Something was not right, but Harry couldn't quite pin down exactly what it was.

He wanted to listen carefully for any noises, but the blindfold covered his ears and made his breathing sound much too loud- he wasn't really breathing _that_ loudly, was he?

Something brushed against his right arm, and Harry felt tingling magic spreading out before him. Something in the room had changed.

"Identify this first potion, Mr Potter."

One of Snape's hands—possibly the left one—crept up the back of Harry's head, applying the lightest insinuation of pressure there. The knot on the scarf dug softly into a delicate spot on Harry's scalp. Taking the hint, Harry bent forwards a fraction.

A faint scent reached his nostrils. He breathed in slowly, and immediately recognised the smell. They had been brewing that potion only four days ago. But...surely Snape wouldn't make it so easy for him? He recalled the names of the potions Hermione had whispered to him before leaving the classroom, and concluded that whatever name she had whispered last was definitely not 'Soothing Philtre'. Belatedly he realised how naïve he had been to think Snape would use the same three potions to test the whole class.

"Well, Mr Potter? I don't intend to spend the night with you here."

Harry jumped slightly, and Snape's hold on his head eased a little.

He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, so he decided to take the risk. "Soothing Philtre, sir?"

"Why, Mr Potter, that is correct," Snape said in a mock-surprised tone.

Harry felt bile rise up in his insides at the taunt. Snape's usual way for humiliating him was to ask him questions he knew Harry did not know the answer to. Perhaps he had grown bored with his old tactics.

Snape's right arm brushed against Harry's once again before tingling magic penetrated his body. The hand on the back of his head pressed forwards and Harry obediently complied, his wrists once again bending in an uncomfortable angle. He let his hands slide forwards along the smooth surface of the table to ease the strain on them, and felt his thumbs graze the cauldron. It was warm.

This potion smelled distantly familiar. Which one was it? Harry tried to recall every potion he could remember, which, admittedly, weren't many. The smell was slightly nauseating, but neither sweet nor bitter. Rather...sour? It wasn't sharp, though.

The hand on his head shifted almost imperceptibly, and Harry lost the little concentration he had managed to gather up. He drew in a deep breath, and an image started to take form in his mind, hovering out of reach, unfathomable. He tried to concentrate on it, certain that it was the memory of what the potion in front of him smelled like.

"Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover?"

Silence. How thick could he be? Snape had said _potions_, not-

"I am impressed, Mr Potter." _What?_ Snape did sound somewhat surprised, but not particularly impressed. "This is indeed a cleaning potion. Abstergeo Brew is its – correct – name." The man's tone gave Harry the impression that his answer had not been correct enough. He straightened up, dragging his hands back to the edge of the table.

A third brush against his arm, a third tingling of magic. The last potion. Finally. Harry sighed.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Harry wondered if Snape was waiting for him to bend forwards by himself this time. He decided to do so, if only to get over with the test sooner and be out of there; hopefully, his friends had taken a roasted potato or two up to the common room for him.

He leaned forwards, his fingers not quite touching the cauldron this time, but stopped abruptly when Snape's hand on his head suddenly gripped him with more strength, as if ordering him still. As soon as it had tightened, the hold eased. Harry inhaled once. Twice. Nothing.

"Is the cauldron empty?" he asked, not doubting Snape was capable of pulling such a trick. He hoped the question hadn't sounded reproachful

His breath caught in his throat when he felt the man behind him lean forwards, his longer frame moulding against Harry's suddenly trembling one. "No," Snape blew in his ear, warm breath against his skin making Harry shy away instinctively.

Something was wrong. Why was Snape standing so close to him, anyway? It was making him uncomfortable. Harry mentally shook his head. _You are not eleven years old anymore, Harry_, he told himself, willing his muscles to relax. And it wasn't like Snape would dare hurt him, when everyone knew where Harry was right now, and with whom. And yet, it was not being hurt that Harry fea- was nervous about, he corrected himself. It was something else, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

_Concentrate._ Yes, he needed to concentrate. Smell. He took a deep breath through his nose, his chest expanding, pressing back against Snape...he held the air in, frozen for a terrifying moment. _Concentrate._ But how could he concentrate when Snape was standing so close behind him_- against_ him? Damn the man for playing this sort of tricks to break his concentration. They were certainly working, though.

He let the air out bit by bit, letting it carry his fears and nervousness with itself. No good. As his chest shrank, Snape bent forwards over him a bit more, pressing against his back ever so slightly. Harry started when the professor's free hand came around his waist, fingers spread over his belly. The contact was as light as if it weren't there, as if Snape weren't really touching him, and Harry thought that maybe he was imagining it, maybe Snape wasn't standing so close to him, maybe it was all in his mind-

"Concentrate," a voice vibrated in his ear. Harry shivered involuntarily, and hoped Snape couldn't feel it. The hand on his front slid around a bit more.

Concentrate. Right. Harry took another breath, this one not so deep, but smelled nothing. (_A faint scent, fabric, chemicals, sweat._) He strained his ears to find out if the potion below him was bubbling, but heard nothing. (_A shallow breathing close to his ears, the rustle of clothes as the hand on his stomach moved downwards a fraction of a millimetre._) He concentrated on his sense of touch, trying to sense any heat that the potion may release, but felt nothing. (_The delicate pressure against his belly, the warmth against his back, the lowest point of his back where the warmth ended, the brush of hair against his bare neck, the flush on his own face._) It was too much, too much...

"I can't," a weak voice mumbled, and Harry realised it was his own.

Snape let go of him abruptly and Harry lost his balance, falling to his knees even as he tried to grip the table. The floor was cold. The air was cold. He had been so warm..._don't_, he stopped himself.

"You have failed, Mr Potter," he heard Snape say behind him, too far behind him, his voice low and neutral. "You have failed the test."

"What?" Harry asked after a moment, still breathless. "But I knew two out of three-"

"You did not do well enough, Mr Potter." Snape's voice was colder now, and closer. "Stand up."

Harry was suddenly angry. He tried to tell himself it was because Snape had failed him unfairly, but knew there was another reason, a strange, scary reason that Harry was sure he did not want to know, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. He sagged forwards, suppressing a curse when his forehead bumped into the hard wood of the edge of the table. Blasted blindfold.

"Up, I said."

Harry's mouth muttered something of its own free will, and Harry hoped it sounded at least a bit like 'yes, sir'. He placed his hands on the floor and pushed himself up, but found his legs were weak and he had to place his hands on the table and let them support part of his weight.

He heard two steps to his right and felt Snape's body get closer until it was standing right next to him, too close, but not _too_ close. Harry's fingertips dug into the wood underneath them.

"You will not leave this office until you have told me what this cauldron contains, Potter."

Harry heard the distinct sound of a ladle being immersed in liquid, then of liquid being poured into a glass, and panicked. Snape was going to make him drink the potion? Snape wouldn't give him something that could endanger his life, but...but what if it was something like...like a truth serum, or something like that? That wouldn't kill Harry, for sure, but it certainly frightened him. Spilling all of his secrets to Snape, of all people...

A hand came up to touch his neck and Harry flinched, but the fingers closed around him and held him in place, igniting cold sparks all over his body, freezing him. Snape was standing closer to him now; Harry could feel the man's body against his right arm.

"Drink," the professor ordered him in a commanding voice, holding something cool—a glass—against his lips.

There was no way he was going to drink whatever potion Snape was trying to feed him. He was sure the man was only doing this to get him to drink whatever was inside the glass. Harry kept his lips locked together, but for some reason—the hand on his neck, he supposed—he did not pull away.

All of a sudden the glass was gone, and Snape was leaning forwards, closer, warmer, firmer...

"Don't you want to leave this office, Potter?" the man was humming in his ear, his breath pouring over Harry's hot skin, tickling his ear, sending electrifying shivers to every nerve ending in his body, making him instinctively lean backwards into the warm hand that seemed to be supporting his whole weight now.

Then Snape pulled his head back, and Harry froze as he realised he was shaking his head. Damn. Why had he shaken his head? He had the strange feeling that he was missing something, that something was going on and he did not know what it was. For a wild moment he thought about asking Snape what it was.

"Drink," the man ordered him again, pressing the glass more firmly against Harry's lips, tilting it back with infinite slowness. The wait was driving Harry insane, but he couldn't figure out if that was because it was too short, or too long.

The cool liquid touched his lips, and Harry opened his mouth and gulped it down, feeling it spill from the corner of his lips and trickle down his chin, his neck. He thought he might choke, but his throat was so tight with terror that it only let a small quantity of the potion slip through it; most of it ended up on his clothes, and probably on the floor as well.

When at last Snape took the glass away, Harry heard, through the buzz in his ears, how softly he put it down on the table.

"Well?"

_Well what?_ Harry's damp clothes clung to his skin, and he felt oddly exposed. He was probably shaking as well. Wet and shaking in front of Snape – what a sight he must be. No doubt the man was smirking at his humiliation, waiting for the undoubtedly embarrassing effects of the potion to kick in. Harry hoped against all hope that they weren't too degrading.

"Aren't you going to tell me the name of what you have just drunk, Potter?" Snape asked. Was that mockery in his tone? "You are not leaving until you tell me."

Harry's mind was blank for a few seconds before he tried desperately to pull back to the front the memory of the potion in his mouth. If he guessed right, perhaps Snape would give him the counter-potion before letting him go. He replayed the moment in his mind, the liquid sliding down his throat, barely touching his tongue...but...the taste...

Snape was leaning his head forwards again, lowering it, Harry could feel it. His breath brushed against Harry's ear once more. "What did it taste like?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." Harry could barely think; feelings, sensations were taking over his mind, overwhelming his senses. He wondered what was different.

"Nothing?" Snape asked again, and it suddenly struck Harry what was different. Snape's hand on his neck had slid downwards, was _still_ sliding downwards.

He stayed very still, uncertain of what he was supposed to do. Snape's hand stopped at his lower back, right above his waistline, and Harry thought that perhaps nothing was wrong, that maybe it was all in his head. Snape touching his back couldn't be wrong, even if it was making him feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable? Well, it was making him feel slightly light-headed, as if his blood were running in wayward directions. He wished Snape would open the door, or that he could take his robe off.

"It had no taste," Harry blurted out abruptly, thinking that an answer was expected of him. He had the sudden urge to tear his blindfold off.

"No," Snape agreed, and this time he was not quite whispering in his ear, but on his cheek. "What have you just drunk, Harry?" Hot breath brushed his lips.

Something- Harry swallowed. Something was definitely wrong. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was not right, he could feel it. If only he could tell him what he had just drunk, maybe Snape would let him go. And he was certain he did know what he had just drunk. If only Snape weren't standing so close, if only he'd let him think for a moment...

Snape's other hand took hold of his chin and lifted his face up. The need to uncover his eyes became stronger, too strong. "What have you just drunk?" Snape's voice was a mere whisper now.

Harry couldn't help it and jumped aside, wrenching himself free of his professor's hold. His knees gave way under his weight and he fell to the floor, damp, trembling, gasping and miserable. "Water," he choked out. "It was water."

The room was quiet. All Harry could hear were his own gasps, his blood pumping in his ears. Then steps.

"Up," Snape's voice ordered him in a harsh tone from somewhere above him.

Harry felt inexplicably drained. A strange tingling sensation overwhelmed every nerve end in his body, intercepting his brain's orders to his muscles to move. A part of his left arm suddenly started hurting, and he realised he was being gripped strongly. Snape pulled him up and Harry leaned what seemed like his whole weight onto that solid grip. A clammy hand came up to support his head by the chin; it was rather cold, even when the body in front of him radiated heat like a flame.

"The test has concluded, Mr Potter."

It was all the warning he got before the hand on his chin let go of him and pulled the blindfold off above his head. Harry squinted his eyes against the unexpectedly bright light of the torches. The dark profile of Professor Snape was in the centre of his vision range. Was the man swaying, or was that Harry's mind?

His glasses were pushed into his hand and Harry put them on. After a moment, when the dizziness stopped, Harry wondered if the man was waiting for him to say something. Apparently not, because at that moment he let go of Harry's arm completely and moved to open the door.

"Back to your common room, Potter," he said, turning around to face Harry, holding the door open impatiently.

Harry blinked. What? He was dismissing him, just like that? Not that Harry wasn't glad the test was over and he was finally able to get away from Snape, but he felt as if something were missing. He had been expecting...something else, something _more_.

Snape lifted an eyebrow, his face taking on an expression of cool sarcasm even as his hold on the door tightened. "Would you rather spend the night here?"

Harry started. There was something behind the man's dry tones, something dangerous, something forbidden, something _more_. The man's eyes were brighter, almost imperceptibly wider, rooting Harry to the spot and trapping him into an imaginary corner that somehow felt real, restricting, and Snape was blocking the only way out of the office and he was ordering Harry to stay, trapping him into a corner and Harry could not do it, could not give the man what he had at some point offered to give, he didn't want to stay for something more, he didn't want what was missing. No.

Snape's eyes narrowed. At first Harry thought he was walking towards him, but then he realised the professor had just moved aside, unblocking the inviting door. Maybe there was a corner behind Harry, preventing him from falling to the floor.

Snape was waiting.

"Sorry, sir," Harry murmured, his head hanging low. He hoped Snape would know all the reasons why he was apologising as he walked past him and out of the office. The classroom was cold; he crossed it in silence, the back of his head almost tingling in the spot where he knew Snape's eyes were fixed.

Once he was outside in the corridor, the classroom door closed behind him, he took a deep breath. His lungs stung as the cold air filled them, and his wet clothes seemed to push against his chest, constricting him. His skin was still tingling in all the places Snape had touched him, had breathed on; stronger than magic, and more persistent.

Countless thoughts and questions raced through his mind, and they all pointed to one thing only, one thing he was walking away from. Before he had time to come to a conclusion he didn't really want to know, Harry emptied his mind and made his way back to Gryffindor tower.

-


End file.
